


The Distraction

by Janice_Lester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janice_Lester/pseuds/Janice_Lester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam picks up girls and grieves for Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> This is likely to trigger for incest owing to the direction of Sam's whirling thoughts. A postage stamp for 2012 [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[kink_bingo](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/), to hit the kinks "oral fixation", "leather latex rubber", "spaces scenes and settings" [as my wildcard], and "exposure/exhibitionism". Beta'd by [](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/profile)[ellethill](http://ellethill.livejournal.com/). Set in the season 3-4 gap, so spoilers through about mid-season 4. AU: Sam's grief and Ruby's return go a little differently than they did in canon. Or, if you prefer, the story Sam told Dean about his relationship with Ruby was a lie he found less embarrassing than the truth.

While the girl is on her knees, Sam tries to give her his complete and undivided attention. It’s only right. He’s considerate, and he makes damn sure he returns the favour. With interest. She’s a perky redhead with a motorbike, and he can sure use the distraction.

But afterwards, when he’s alone in some awful motel room that feels too big without Dean there to occupy seemingly all the space? When his dick’s in his hand and he’s searching, searching for some much-needed release? _Then_ he remembers it, allows himself to dwell on the memory. The shape of her lips, stretched around him. Her pouty, distracting lips that—let him be honest, here in his own head—remind him of Dean’s. The feel of the fine black leather where his hands rest atop her shoulders. Leather will never not make him think of Dean.

Yeah, it’s wrong, it’s so wrong he can’t even decide who he’s disrespecting more: the girl, his brother, or himself. He knows he shouldn’t do it, knows this isn’t exactly a _healthy_ way of remembering Dean, of keeping him _real_. On the other hand, it’s also a lot safer than what he most _wants_ to be doing, which is threatening cross-roads demons and researching necromancy and doing whatever the hell else it might take to get Dean back out of Hell and down here on Earth where he belongs. Or even just out of Hell; he thinks he could settle for knowing Dean was safe somewhere, and happy. He really, really doesn’t like to think about what Dean must be going through in _that_ place, friendless, alone.

Bobby had wanted to bury Dean in the jacket. Hell, no. That would be like mothballing the car. Even if he doesn’t _wear_ the jacket, mostly just carries it like a kid with a blankie, even if he can never be crazy about the car like Dean was, these are Dean’s things and they’re still useful and they matter and they’re not going anywhere.

He picks up the next girl in a bar. Well, not exactly. It’s a long story, and he makes her go get a new body before he’ll even look at her, and when she does it’s brunette and it _reminds him of Dean_. Or maybe it’s not even the hair colour, maybe it’s the attitude. But she’s here and she’s Ruby and she’s gonna help him track Lilith the hell down and _make_ her give up Dean. Or failing that, make her die. Frankly, he’d greatly enjoy either possibility.

“Don’t worry,” Ruby says, misinterpreting his expression, “think I remember pretty well how this goes.” And then she’s on her knees, and, fuck, Dean would kill him for this, but _Dean is not here_ and oh, fuck, it feels good when nothing, nothing else does or can or ever will unless he can—

And they’re in the alley outside the bar where anyone might see and this is _just_ the sort of place where Dean’s probably been laid a hundred times. Sam’s hands scrabble at the brick behind him, Ruby sucks like a pro (not that Sam would know how it feels to be sucked by a pro, but Dean would, he bets Dean would), and the leather’s warm where it’s folded over his left forearm, making crinkly noises when he moves, almost like it would if Dean was here and wearing it. Watching them. Does Dean like to watch? That’s not the kind of thing that Sam would ever ask him, unless maybe it was a joke somehow. But right now he can definitely imagine that Dean might. That Dean could get off on watching his little brother get head and then afterwards, if their eyes met, just give him that fucking smirk, offer a fist bump like Sam’s just _achieved_ something. Sam would just about _kill_ for that fist bump right now, but instead he slips his fingers into Ruby’s hair and watches her suck him down, watches her lips, feels the little butterfly-flickers of her tongue against the head, the occasional sharp edge of teeth she’s probably not used to yet.

She _hums_ around his dick, staring right up at him with those big eyes, and Sam thinks suddenly of the way Dean sometimes hums in the morning when he got laid the night before and it’s all too much—

Everything flares white and he comes, hard, into that inhumanly cool, sucking mouth, his head tapping back against the grimy brick wall. It’s brutal and it’s wrong and it’s _perfect_.

Afterwards, his legs are a little wobbly around the knees, but he still manages to help her to her feet. And actually, she has kind of a good line on the whole Dean Smirk thing. He likes it, the way it curves her lips.

Later, she poses in her underwear in the dilapidated old flophouse he’s been squatting in, peering at him like she knows exactly why he’s fondling this pile of well-loved leather. Seems completely at home in her frilly lingerie, too, like she’s admiring herself and hopes he will too. She does have pretty lips. Huh. Bet if he told Dean that he’d punch her right in the mouth.

“Penny for them,” she says.

“Not worth it,” he tells her, and she goes quiet, just stares at the ceiling like the mould patterns are old friends or something. Perhaps they are. Who knows how old any given demon might be? She might have stayed here a hundred years ago for ten cents a night, riding the meat-suit of a travelling lumberjack or a hopeful hobo. He wonders idly how she got by before there were French fries.

Sam covers his head with the jacket, tries to smell Dean in it and not just leather. Perhaps he should wear it. He’s bulked up, but not _that_ much, right? And just imagining the look on Dean’s face if he saw it is—

He wants his brother back so hard it hurts like a freaking stab wound. And he’s had those, so he knows.

“Come on,” he says, jumping to his feet, lays the leather jacket carefully over one shoulder like an infant that needs soothing. “Let’s go get you some fries, and you can tell me your plan for some serious Lilith-slaying.”

“Attaboy,” she says. She’s wriggled back into her jeans in about three seconds flat. She shoves her dainty little feet back into her shoes, catches up her shirt and sweater but doesn’t bother putting them on, and then she’s trotting for the door wearing only denim and lace. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Yeah, well. I thought a lot of things. I’m trying to stop.”

“That’s the spirit,” Ruby says, and grins.

Later, parked somewhere in the dark in the Impala, he’s going to think of his brother while he smudges that lipstick. Again. And he’s decided he’s just not going to regret that at all.

 

***END***


End file.
